Why do they crawl over and under each other? Why does it sound like skittering when they have no legs? Why is it so loud?
I cover my ears but the sound never really goes away. As I squeeze my eyes shut, I press the palms of my hands against my ears even harder. All this does is make their image clearer, their sound sharper.
The sound is now rushing water-the skittering noise gone. It’s fitting because it gives the illusion that I’m drowning. But is it really an illusion? My eyes and ears begin to hurt-even my hands-from pressing so hard. My heart is pounding and I’m taking quick, short breaths.
That’s when the whispering starts. Though the worms do not appear to speak, I know, deep in my heart, that this sound is coming from them. At first, the whispers are hurried and overlapping. They are children climbing over each other to get to a treasured toy. They’re indistinct and very loud, if whispers can be described this way.
As I grow steadily more unnerved, my breathing more rapid, my heart beating in a frenzy-the whispers suddenly take on a crystal clear quality. Though my ears are covered, they get through to me anyway, because I can hear them in my head.
The worms whisper terrible, awful things to me. They are shards of glass-these words-stabbing me everywhere. They are my feelings about myself, my worries about my family and future, and my fears about my children.
I want to scream, to make it all stop. But I can’t do that. I’m in our only bathroom. My husband is rushing me to get out so he can take a shower. My son is yelling at me because he needs help with his therapy assignment. And my daughter is crying because I don’t have time to play with her right now.
So I imagine closing the worms off in a box and locking it with a key. It’s a temporary fix but it must be done. I’m far too busy to give in to my despair.
Jessica S.
Aug. 2019
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